


A Promise Made at the Roots of the World

by WT Maxwell (WThomas_M)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A different kind of virgin birth, First Age shenanigans, Gen, Melkoth keeps his promises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2020-05-18 20:00:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19341589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WThomas_M/pseuds/WT%20Maxwell
Summary: The Quendi claim that Men were the second born children of Iluvatar. They claim that men were pure until they were corrupted by the fallen one, Morgoth. Those wises elves of old would never lie about the origin of men, would they?





	A Promise Made at the Roots of the World

> But of those unhappy ones who were ensnared by Melkor little is known of a certainty. For who of the living has descended into the pits of Utumno, or has explored the darkness of the counsels of Melkor? Yet this is held true by the wise of Eressëa, that all those of the Quendi who came into the hands of Melkor, ere Utumno was broken, were put there in prison, and by slow arts of cruelty were corrupted and enslaved; and thus did Melkor breed the hideous race of the Orcs in envy and mockery of the Elves, of whom they were afterwards the bitterest foes.

(Tolkien, J. R. R. (2004). _The Silmarillion_. HarperCollins. p. 40. ISBN 0-00-717302-4.)

“Is quite the thing, ein’it?”

“Whuzz-is?” The grizzled, twisted wreck rubbed the scratchy back of its palm across its bulbous nose, popping a sore that’d needed to be drained for some time.

“I’m jus’ saying. Well, ‘s not me, saying, really. More like Grika.”

“Grika’s got pork pies fallin’ from his lips.” The old monster grumbled. “Can’ believe nothin’ he says.”

“Hey, not saying he’s got anything but a hole for a mouth,” the younger one replied, rubbing his forehead with both hands to show respect. “But, even the blind can be right twice a day, right?”

The old one waved his hand like he was swatting a fly, almost decking the younger one. “You wanna spread his farts? Go ahead. Don’ think I’m goin’ to lissen.” Pulled himself to his feet, let his knees pop and crackle before starting to move off.

“Marja’s preg’nt.”

The old creature flopped back down. “Kyrka, why you tellin’ me this? You knows whuzz-it means.”

“Yeah.” Kyrka spit on his hand, rubbed it into his cheek. “Means They was wrong.”

* * *

Bunch of years back. Back before Orik was called ‘old’. Back before They caved his head in, making it hard to speak. There was a fire and there was people listening and Orik was in his Day. One leg twisted, so he couldn’t fight, but all that rage was bundled up in him and he let it out in the Story. The story of the People.

“Comes the time when we get to know who we are.” Orik had already worked the people up into a frenzy. “Comes the time when we hear the story.”

The people howled with their need.

“THEY tell us They came from the sky and from the rivers, in clouds of fire and light and song.”

The people hissed.

“THEY tell us that It was only their shadow, afraid to face them, afraid to listen to their song and rest in their light. So It took Them…” Orik reached out with his arm, grabbing imaginary people from the air. “Stole Them. Down under the hills. Into the dark. It shaded Their blaze, Twisted them. Into us!”

The crowd roared.

“We know the truth. It promised us the world. We are the ones meant to take the skies. THEY tell us we are all that we will ever be. No children. No future. Useless, twisted, broken. That when we die, our bones sink into the earth. But we know that It loves us. It gives flesh back to us. And it returns us to the caves which first gave us birth, for the nation to find. And is that not the way?”

Those that could barely be called ‘female’ pumped their hands into the air.

“THEY try and find our bones and grind them up but even if a chip falls to earth, we are reborn in shadow and stillness. Is that not the way? Is that not our purpose?”

The sound of the people filled the night.

“THEY say we should not be. That we should be denied Their lands because of our origin. But WE say that it is time to take it back. To bring Their entire nation to Their knees and bring them before It for judgment.”

The males of the nation let battle cries flood from between their teeth. The time had come.

The nights were long and the light could no longer harm It.

The people were going to war.

* * *

The war didn’t go well, or as planned. During the heat of the war, It had extended itself out of the earth, a finger of truth to show It supported Its creations. The people spread without fear for a time. But they didn’t understand that being out in the open made It vulnerable. The known sources of power were poisoned by Them. The scouts of the enemy found the birthing caves and buried them thoroughly, leaving generations of newly-fleshed to climb up into darkness, only to suffocate and fall into an endless cycle of horrible death and short rebirth.

Then It was killed. The shock of that event itself drove many in the nation into a suicidal frenzy.

Victorious over a ruined land, They didn’t even bother to celebrate their victory. They angrily cried out over the horrors They themselves visited on the land, but blamed it on the people. In a fit, They returned to Their clouds and fire and light and song. They left the few remaining People—‘Fomor’ in Their ridiculous tongue—to wallow in the wastelands of what remained. That and those who were too slow or too poor or too unloved to go with Them.

For a time, there was great weeping. And then silence. And then resolve.

The People knew they were going to die.

Then Marja got pregnant.

* * *

Maybe there weren’t as many as there had been in the past but it seemed like most of the nation was here.

“Them Rawheads.” Kyrka said.

“Whuzz-at?” snorted Orik. “Whuzz about ‘em?”

“Ein’t here, tha’s what’s up.”

“Well, fine thing for ‘em. Rawheads.” Orik curled his lips over the ugly whiskers that poked out from just above his upper lip. “Those bherks are always skint and liszt.”

“Good enuf for you to say.” Kyrka replied. “But shoul’nt everyone be here? Important day, right?”

“Remains to be seen.” Orik kicked a mewling mottled little creature in front of him to get him out of the way. “Might be wrong. Might be nothing.”

“Preg’nt ein’t nothin’.”

“Hm.” Orik saw the birthing tent. Stretched enemy hides, sun-tanned and stained with Their blood and tree sap, biggest in camp. “What’er the people sayin’?”

“Big ones are grumblin’. Want to do somethin’.” Kyrka replied, opening up the tent flap. “Others are quiet. But everyone’s waiting on you.”

Orik turned to face Kyrka.  “Stupid.” He grumbled, knocking a fist against the side of his head with the obvious dent. “Ein’t much of what I used to be.”

Kyrka caught Orik’s gaze before bowing his eyes in respect. “You carry the stories. You’re most important of all.”

Orik glared at Kyrka, looked him over, trying to find out whether he was being mocked. It didn’t look like it. He sighed and went inside.

It was hotter than he thought it should be.

Marja was howling. She’d walk around for a minute, the females attending her, and then she’d sit. Then she’d lie down. She was so swollen and when she was on the bed, Orik thought it looked like she’d been split in two where her legs met.

“Is there blood?” he asked one of the females.

She shrugged. “Not enough for her to pass.”

Orik examined Marja, tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

“Infection?”

The female was struggling with patience. “If so, it’s an infection that moves on its own.”

Orik barked out a laugh. “Well, we’ve all seen those.”

The female frowned, but then shared a bitter smile. There had been something They had used during the war. The spell would wriggle inside the people, rip them up and then leave to infect another in the camp. She then gave Orik a small shake of the head to confirm to him what Marja had wasn’t that.

Orik squatted in a corner to watch. Time passed and Kyrka attended to him. A sip of blood and milk to refresh. A strip of cool cloth for Orik’s head if he started to get too hot. Orik tried to fold it all in, to pull from scattered memories what he knew. From watching animals. From the time he’d snuck into Their camp when he was young and stupid, and seen one of Them giving birth.

Time passed. Time, time, time.

There was a small cry.

“Cut the cord.” He said, and one of the others did, with her teeth. He got up, felt his knees crack and pop, and came over.

“It looks like one of Them.” One of the women spit.

Orik came over, put a taloned hand on it. The skin was smooth, like Them. But the hair, slicked down with fluid but beautiful. And the body matched, one side to the other. Five fingers, no more. And the color of the skin. Tears came to Orik, unasked for.

“No.” Orik replied. “Look at it. Skin like the world. Its eyes. No… not like them.” He put his fist up to his chest. “This. This was the promise It gave to us so long ago. This was the promise.”

There was a collective intake of breath. They understood.

They understood…

“We were never alone.” Orik continued, words pouring out of him. “Even when It died. Never abandoned or twisted. We were unfinished. This is the promise fulfilled.” Orik couldn’t help it as the feeling of joy overwhelmed him.

“What do we call it?” Kyrka asked.  The others looked at Orik, who drew in a breath. Orik looked at the child, resting now in its proud mother’s arms, surrounded by reluctant monsters who would always remain by its side, who would always ensure that the child would be safe.

Orik smiled, rubbing at one tusk that was threatening to split open his lip. The others were waiting for an answer. He took another deep breath and looked at the child. It looked back up at him  with a calm gaze and smiled.

“I think…” he said. “I think we’ll call it ‘Man.’”


End file.
